


There's Lessons You Should Learn

by antisnotabug



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antisnotabug/pseuds/antisnotabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is late, but he hasn't forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Lessons You Should Learn

He misses the anniversary by a couple of weeks. There had been a case (because there is always a case) and his was important to his recent promotion that he put all the effort he could into it. The sweat on his palm makes the flowers shift in his grip and Lestrade admonishes himself for feeling guilty for being late. If anyone would’ve understood putting the job before an anniversary, it would’ve been him. Were he here right now, Sherlock Holmes would scoff at this whole idea and mockingly call him sentimental. Of course, he isn’t here to tell Lestrade anything anymore.

He approaches the grave tentatively. Lestrade never feels like he belongs here, the rare times he can stop by. It isn’t his place. Yet he plods forward anyway to place the white snowdrop flowers in front of the black gravestone. “Woman at the shop said these would be right for this sort of thing,” is what he opens with sheepishly. Then, for a long time, he doesn’t say anything. A heavy hand rests on top of the marker and Lestrade finds himself staring at his reflection. Sherlock’s engraved name rests over Lestrade’s face as though it’s embedded permanently into his skin. He shifts uncomfortably so it isn’t there anymore. Unobstructed, his face looks much older than it has any right to, even for his age. The bags under his eyes are dark, the lines on his face are more set in than ever, and there’s no spark to be found in his irises. A man his age working from the bottom, it’s bound to stamp out his appetite for life. 

“Jen’s out of the house now,” he announces. “You were right about the teacher. Not that that lasted. With some banker now.” He shakes his head. “Guess you were right about her needing to be around prestige too. I really hate when you’re right, you know.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice when talking about his ex-wife. It nearly feels normal again. The cold stone beneath Lestrade’s hand reminds him that it isn’t and he clears his throat. “But that’s not what you want to hear about. Why would you?” This is the man who once solved a case in the span of three seconds while half a country away yet it took him six years to learn Lestrade’s first name. A smile starts to form but it doesn’t quite make it there. 

Lestrade glances down, the half-smile turning into a thoughtful pursing of his lips. “John’s… he’s trying, Sherlock. Seems a little bit better since meeting that girl of his but… I try to see him, now and again. We’ll go for a pint and talk for a little while. No matter how it starts, it always comes back to sharing stories about you. Of course. I try and keep out the bits from before you got sober. He’s had to deal enough with your smeared reputation.” He taps the top of the marker with some excitement. “But. That’s gotten better. You know there’s a campaign for you now? People believe in you, Sherlock. They—” He has to stop. A lump in Lestrade’s throat prevents any more words from leaving. It takes willpower, but he swallows it down. Again his eyes find the pitiful reflection and he has to stare at himself in place of his consulting detective. “I should’ve believed in you. I should’ve… done more. Done _something_.” At a loss for what to do now, Lestrade grips the edge of the stone like he would a shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. For all of it.”

Then he steps back. Lestrade thinks he’s finished, but suddenly he levels a look at the unmoving gravestone. “But why did you have to do that? What was the point? You know I figured it out in the end, right? That’s how it’s always been, you _know_ that. Sherlock figures it out first, idiot Lestrade gets it second, the rest of the world comes third. I tried to help you, you didn’t have to—” He throws his hands up in frustration. It’s a sad day when he’s trying to argue with a slab of marble. Lestrade isn’t sure why he does this. It always ends the same way. “Sorry. I’ll let you be.” Sherlock’s earned that, at least. Sticking his hands in his jacket, he turns and treks back to his car. Lestrade realizes that, yet again, Sherlock had been right. He really did need him. Dead for over a year and Lestrade is still trying to turn to that clever boy for answers.


End file.
